


Pen

by emmish, Gem_Gem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chaste Kiss, Fluff, I Edited This Instead of Sleeping, Late at Night, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Pajamas & Sleepwear, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is annoying, Short, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 20:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9512984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmish/pseuds/emmish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: Bring me a pen. – SH





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Шариковая ручка](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10479003) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



Bring me a pen. – SH

John gasped out of his nightmare, skin tingling with unspent adrenaline, and peered into the darkness of his room. Kicking off sweaty sheets and breathing deeply, he rubbed his forehead wearily, trying to rid himself of the lingering sounds, smells and sensations that played onward across the backs of his eyes and rippled and throbbed outwards from his left shoulder. Seconds later, his phone, upside down on the bedside table, buzzed harshly to remind him of an unread message, and he fumbled for it, the screen dizzy and blinding to his tear-dampened eyes.  
Scoffing after he managed to read the simple text, he thumbed a reply.

Piss. Off. - JW  


The one in the living room. - SH

John frowned at the tiny digits on his phone, cursing to himself as irritation seemed to fuel his typing speed.  
Its 3.28am. Go to bed. - JW  


It’s on the desk. – SH

I don't care where it is. I'm asleep. - JW

Clearly you’re not. So, the pen. – SH

Clearly you're not incapable. I'm not your slave. Slaves don't have to pay rent. - JW

Pen please. – SH

'Please' won't work on me. – JW

John sighed and sat up in bed, smearing the back of his hand across one sore eye, and then the inside of his wrist across the other, drying them cursorily. He hated that he still suffered. It wasn’t daily, there was no routine to it, no schedule, he either suffered through the harrowing nightmares or he didn’t. At first he thought adventure and adrenaline helped to prevent them, but there had been times, many times, where a case had actually given him stronger nightmares.

Pretty please. – SH

I'm having a bad night, seriously. Not now. - JW

Bring me the pen, John. – SH

Why can't you get it? - JW

Indisposed in my room. Hurry up. – SH

Yeah, well I'm busy too. Can't. - JW

You’re not busy. You just had a night terror. You’ll go down for a drink of water in a few minutes because you are dehydrated. Get me the pen. – SH

I have water here. I'm not moving for you. Ungrateful sod. – JW

You do not have water there. Get the pen, John. – SH

John used the glare of his phone screen to search his table for the glass of water he had left there earlier in the evening. It was nowhere to be seen. He was unsure whether he felt surprised by this or not. He definitely felt angry. Clearly Sherlock had taken it.  
What are you up to? Did you take it? - JW

Still waiting on that pen. – SH

I'm sure you are. I'm not coming to help you. I can be as stubborn as you. – JW

Pen. – SH

No. - JW.

John grinned to himself and stretched, before thumbing through his apps, wanting to entertain himself with something cheery before he went back to sleep, to try and prevent him falling back into the same nightmare. It worked sometimes. It depended on how bad things had been, how distracting the apps could be.

Pen. – SH

Pen. – SH

Pen. – SH

Pen. – SH

Pen. – SH

Pen. – SH

Pen. – SH

Pen. – SH

Pen. – SH

John laughed softly at the fresh bombardment of messages. How did he even do that? They were barely a second a part.  
You could've gotten it yourself by now. No wonder Mycroft calls you a big baby. - JW

I don’t hear movement toward that pen. – SH

Likewise. – JW

I can’t. I need you to get it. Get the pen. – SH

Write it down in your Mind Palace like everything else. - JW

Come here. – SH

With the pen. – SH

What's in it for me. – JW

You can get yourself some water. Obviously. The glass is on the desk. Next to the pen. – SH

I want something from you. - JW

Come and tell me what it is then. With the pen. – SH

Fine. – JW

John pulled down his rucked T-shirt and stood, yawning. Wondering if Sherlock was actually expecting him, he slowly made his way downstairs, hand on the wall to guide him in the dark. He was still giddy and wonky from exhaustion and so every three steps he took a moment to pause, to breathe.

The living room was a shadow of itself and John knocked his shin on a misplaced chair with a thud and a muffled curse before he found the desk. Just as Sherlock had said, the glass from John’s room was sitting and waiting for him, reflecting the light of street lamps that seeped through the curtains. It was empty though and dry, the water that had been in it leaving nothing but a small flat, drying droplet behind on the bottom.

"Dammit," he muttered to himself, going to the kitchen carefully, scuffing his feet to detect unseen obstacles. Slightly disconcerted in the silence by the sound of his own heartbeat, he quietly refilled the glass and then made his way to Sherlock's room, his hand outstretched to feel the door.

He hissed as he opened it to a flush of bright, dazzlingly, headache inducing light from Sherlock’s bedside lamp and took a few seconds to grow accustomed to it before he turned to the man in question, who was sitting, cross-legged, in the centre of the bed on his laptop. The detective looked up at John briefly, bright, narrowing, penetrating eyes flitting over John’s face, John’s mussed hair and John’s crumpled pyjamas, and then sighed in annoyance.

“Pen,” he said curtly.

"Ah, shit," John said reactively, but he made no move to go back to the living room. "I - hang on," he frowned, pointing incriminatingly at Sherlock's own cluttered bedside table. "There are... _three_ pens right there.”

“Not the pen I want,” Sherlock said in a sigh and gave John another look over. “Get the pen on the desk. I want that pen.”

John's fists tightened and clenched at his sides, nails digging reassuringly into his palms until he exhaled, pushing out as much of the raising irritableness as he could. Glaring daggers at Sherlock, he called back to him as he made his way to the living room again. "What are you writing?"

“Hurry up!” Was Sherlock’s only response.

John paused, but ultimately fetched the biro, childishly twisting off the top and pulling out the ink tube, re-attaching the nib. Going back to the bedroom, he tossed the empty pen onto Sherlock's laptop with a loud clack, happy with his immature and peeving actions despite everything.

Sherlock looked at it and then rolled his eyes, “The fountain pen,” he said, flicking the empty thing aside without a second thought. It bounced off the wall and was lost somewhere under the bed.

John ignored him, sitting on the mattress and rubbing at his calf, which had decided to start to twinge. "What are you writing?" he asked again.

“Get the fountain pen,” Sherlock told him, once more looking him over. “Please.”

John, feeling suddenly too tired to try and usurp the detective, staggered out again, picked up the godforsaken red fountain pen, and held it out to Sherlock upon his return, sitting down heavily. "Satisfied now?"

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a smile, taking it and then handing it back out again with a cheeky expression as he closed his laptop, put it aside, and shifted around to face him, also holding out a leather-bound journal with John’s initials engraved on it. “Here.”

John's jaw fell open slightly, his brow crinkling. "Is this…? For me?" he asked rather redundantly, fingers already tracing his own initials in awe.

“Clearly,” Sherlock drawled with a puff of amusement and shuffled to the edge of the bed, slipping off to stand up in front of him. “Pen too. It’s new. Didn’t you notice?”

John tried to bite away the silly grin that was thrilling his face, but couldn't, and he laughed breathlessly. "For blogging?"

“For anything. – Schedules you need to make or keep, things you need to remember, notes you wish to take, evidence you want to document, private cases you want to write…I know you prefer the old fashioned way. You aren’t so keen, or conversant, when it comes to computers and keyboards. You type horrendously slow, but write incredibly swift and proficient,” Sherlock told him and tilted his head, peering into his face with a hopeful expression and a grin of his own.

"Why was it necessary to give it to me at arse o' clock in the morning?" John asked fondly, flicking through the thick pages and sniffing the paper appreciatively.

“Because you were awake. And I thought it would cheer you up.” Sherlock shrugged and then rocked on his feet. “You…like it, right?”

"...How did you know I was upset?" John asked quietly, before shaking his head. Of _course_ Sherlock knew. "...It's amazing. Thanks," he said honestly, placing it reverently to one side and stood up, going to hug Sherlock, and then awkwardly losing steam, patting his upper arms instead.

Sherlock glanced down at where John touched him for a moment, adjusting his stance, and he then lifted his arms and pulled John in for the hug John had forgone, looking away as he did so and soothingly, if a bit clumsily, he then rubbed between John’s shoulder blades. He was toasty warm and smelt of chemicals, honey, and his own musky and natural scent, and it was instantly calming. Heart wrenchingly so.

John startled both of them by abruptly sobbing, just once, and he immediately pushed one hand against his eyes, shielding and scrubbing them punishingly. "God...sorry," he muttered wetly, trying to pull away.

“It’s all right,” Sherlock whispered and held on, keeping him close and cupping the nape of his neck with a tenderness that spoke volumes.

"It's not. I'm being daft," John deflected, but he stopped squirming, and instead just focussed on slowing and steadying his sticky breathing, his frantic heartbeat. "...Despite appearances, I really am happy about the present," he managed weakly, giving a sniffling laugh.

Sherlock hummed with his own laugh and rubbed between his shoulder blades again, “Good. I thought you might. – Had hoped you might, I should say,” he murmured and slowly rested his cheek against John’s head.

"...I wish I could just stop dreaming," John mumbled out of the blue, a long, calm minute later.

“Perhaps you should sleep here?” Sherlock suggested.

John froze, and his peaceful heartbeat thudded back into fight-or-flight mode. "...How would that help?"

“Because I’ll be here,” Sherlock said in a very quiet and cautious tone.

"...How long since you figured it out?" John mumbled against Sherlock's warm, worn-soft T-shirt.

Sherlock altered his weight and stroked along his back comfortingly, taking a deep breath before he spoke, “A while,” he replied.

"Of course. Idiot," John scolded himself gently, snuffling out a little laugh. "Could give it a try, I suppose." There was a questioning tone at the end of the sentence, and he tensed up as he awaited the reply.

“Mm. Obviously. I was the one to suggest it. Don’t take it as your own idea when it was mine. I always come up with the best ideas. You know that,” Sherlock replied with a smirk to his voice, tightening his arms around John for a fraction of a second, and then leaning back to look at him.

"Sociopath my arse," John teased him, gently pulling back and smearing tears from his face, taking a large, gusty breath.

Slapping gently at John’s shoulder with a friendly sort of touch, Sherlock then cupped the side of John’s face with what felt like immeasurable, intimate affection, and stepped back, “Get in then. I might as well try and sleep too.”

"Can't promise I won't kick you," John warned him, only semi-joking, as he moved towards the far side of Sherlock's bed and pulled back the cover tentatively.

Sherlock relocated his laptop, putting it away, and then brought John’s glass over for him, putting it on the other bedside table next to where he’d lie, “Can’t promise I won’t steal the covers,” he replied and shrugged out of his dressing gown, hanging it up in the wardrobe.

"...Are you expecting something in return now?" John smirked, sliding under the heavy covers with a gratified sigh. "Because I will get you something," he promised, rolling to face the middle of the bed.

“I don’t expect anything, no,” Sherlock huffed as he turned the bedside lamp off, pitching the room into sudden darkness. The bed dipped and bounced as he got into it, the warm gust of air signalling his slumping body, and John vaguely caught sight of Sherlock’s black curls as he turned onto his side to face him. “You’re always getting me things anyway. I thought I should repay the favour.” His tone was light-hearted and low, rumbling in the space between them.

"Thank you. Really," John said again, clearing his throat and fidgeting with his fingers until he realised how audible the sound was. Skin against skin. Feeling anxious, he spoke as quietly as he could. "Can I just...um..." he trailed off wordlessly, but scooted his hand in the direction of Sherlock's chest, instantly finding his strong, thumping heartbeat, and sighing in shaky relief.

Sherlock’s own hand shifted to cover his, “Come here,” he breathed, reaching across the mattress with his free hand to tug on John, signalling him closer.

After the briefest hesitation, John shifted forward in a rustle of fabrics, explaining himself self-consciously as he went. "I know it's not logical. I _know_ you're here, and fine, and...everything. But sometimes, I just...God, I don't know," he muttered frustratingly.

“Me too,” Sherlock told him and squeezed John’s hand tight. “You don’t have to try and justify yourself, justify this, you know. It’s fine. It’s all…fine.” His free hand was suddenly skimming across John’s face, drifting up into his hair to caress in soothing circles.

Painfully aware of his own heartbeat now, practically vibrating through the mattress, John nodded, and was appalled to find himself on the verge of tears again. Not daring to speak for fear of his voice breaking, he nodded once more, and blindly pressed a very small, very quick kiss to Sherlock's cheek, before settling back into his pillow. It had been almost impulsive. A quick thank you. An expression of affection. John was glad for the darkness.

“…I love you, you know,” Sherlock mumbled in such a low, vibrating baritone that for a moment, John wasn’t sure he’d heard what he had, especially when Sherlock’s hand moved down to pat his back and move away again.

John decided to risk a reply, but soon found himself trying to enunciate through a burning, constricted throat, a tight chest and a traitorously weak voice. "You know what? Yeah, I do."

Sherlock shuffled an inch or two closer and then yawned with a small laughing sigh, “Good,” he said. “Goodnight John. I’ll be here. I’m always here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback fuels us!
> 
>  [Gem's Tumblr](http://gem-gem-bites.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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